


to have and to hold

by Kirjavi



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Emperor Armitage Hux, Fanart Included, Hound Kylo Ren, Knight Kylo Ren, M/M, Slight D/s Dynamics, about the softest kylux i'll ever write, burn wound tw, trevorrow script inspired (just swap emperor hux for chancellor hux and nix supreme leader ren)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29074428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirjavi/pseuds/Kirjavi
Summary: “A knighting ceremony,” Hux says.“A knighting ceremony?” Kylo looks at the datapad Hux gives him, flipping through archaic-looking pictures and documents. “I’m technically one already, and I don’t see how–”“You’re a knight of Ren,” Hux corrects. “Not of the Empire.”“But the knights of Ren serve Ren, who is me, and I serve the Emperor.” At this point it’s just semantics, but Kylo is in a bickering mood.The young Emperor Hux tires of the whispers of uprising he hears in the Outer Rim and decides only a publicized show of force will do the trick.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Comments: 8
Kudos: 90





	to have and to hold

**Author's Note:**

> man idk this is the second kylux fic i've posted in a month this came from me and an anonymous friend talking about ren's costuming, then off on a tangent about armor, then from there a full-on spiral into the surprisingly homoerotic ceremony behind knighting, and THEN i discovered the trevorrow script, which only served to make me even more rabid over the concept of extremely powerful hux and his ostentatious gay palace estate with his male wife kylo ren have fun this is the softest kylux i'll ever write please pay attention to the art my friend drew for this i cannot stop looking at ren's ass it's unreal

“Ren,” says Hux one evening. He is lying naked on their bed, his pale skin gleaming in the low light of the (extremely extravagant, completely unnecessary) fireplace. Kylo doesn’t quite know how his skin has not yet freckled, being on-planet for so long.

Too late, he realizes Hux was expecting a reply. “Mmm?” he says. His body is still pleasantly sore from their recent activities, warm and sleepy with the fire crackling at the edges of his senses.

“They’re getting restive,” Hux says. Kylo nods as if he has any room in his brain to process anything except for maybe a nap and pillows his head on his arms, watching Hux think. “There were more rebels than we expected. You were undermanned.”

“There’s a reason why you send me to do the dirty work,” Kylo points out. “It gets messy for a reason.”

“But they _defied_ you, Ren. That’s not the point.” Hux is beautiful like this when he begins to truly start to plan and scheme–something in him is set alight, and Kylo can see it in his Force signature, sparking and vicious. “Intimidation used to be enough to quell the uprisings, but that’s not enough now.”

Kylo hums, lets his eyes slide shut and pulls up the memory again of the last mission. It was nowhere, honestly, a tiny Outer Rim planet that was so nondescript that it had numbers instead of a name. Ordinarily it was as Hux said–simply the presence of the Emperor’s Hand was enough to scare most would-be folk heroes away. He has heard for himself by now what they call him, those who are ungrateful enough to try to overthrow his Emperor’s benevolent and righteous rule–the Hound, the word slurred and twisted from Hand, hunting down foes like something that can catch the scent of blood. 

He’s not as insulted by the epithet as he thought–he’s taken to wearing the various kyber crystals and credit types and, yes, occasional teeth and more morbid trophies of his conquests and kills, stringing them on thin bits of chain from his cloak. The names spat at him are small matter when he can sense for himself the fear he strikes in those who hear the dull clank and rustle of his ornaments–“The Hound is pulling at his leash,” they whisper, and flee before him like vermin.

“You’re right,” he says. “They’re getting antsy.”

Hux sniffs. “Of course I’m right,” he says. “That’s why I’m Emperor.”

Kylo snorts and throws a heavy limb over his waist indiscriminately. “That’s why you never sleep,” he says. “Sleep with me.”

Hux quirks an eyebrow, pale eyelashes barely catching the light. “I believe I just did, Ren.”

Kylo is not so tired as to be immune to rolling his eyes. “You know what I mean,” he says. “Come to bed.”

His Emperor graciously acquiesces this time and rolls over towards him, folding easily into his arms. Kylo buries his nose gratefully in the familiar smell of his hair and sleep claims him that night just as surely as the man in his arms.

Hux does not bring up the spectre of impending revolution for a while. Life goes on as it usually does nowadays, with Kylo spending his days bickering quietly with Hux about allocations of diplomatic resources (he may have been forged into a weapon but politics is in his blood just as surely as the midi-chlorians are) (and he means honestly, Hux, is that all the aid you are planning on giving to Chandrila, because their coffers are bare after the rebels and if we help them we look stronger _and_ sway the Inner Core–), training, discussing tactics with Phasma (General), and, of course, doing his utmost to trail Hux wherever he goes when given the opportunity. He has gotten into the habit lately of sitting at Hux’s feet as he holds open court, lounging next to the throne just close enough to feel his leg press against his shoulder.

Hux had objected to it the first time, but after the first few assassination attempts he gave up trying to convince him otherwise and now sticks to petty complaining.

“I have an entire security detail, Ren,” he grouses after he nearly trips over the edge of his cloak for the third time.

“And none of them can use the Force, _and_ none of them can halt a blaster bolt with their mind, Hux,” he says. Appearance dictates that he should refer to him by his proper title when in company, but Kylo had never put much stock in properness before and certainly did not intend to start in the middle of Conference Room 4A, waiting for the diplomatic envoy from Chandrila to arrive. Hux’s handful of personal troopers, on guard around the perimeter of the room, don’t say anything anyways.

Hux rolls his eyes and pulls up the budget reports the envoy forwarded ahead of their arrival. Kylo knows for a fact that he could delegate the work, but simply refuses to hear important information from another person’s mouth. “Go sit down somewhere,” he says absently, already scanning through the holos. “They should arrive on-world soon, then you can–scan them for whatever Force-things you look for, I don’t care.”

Kylo watches the green flicker of his eyes as they absorb information and moves to stand behind him, leaning against the wall. He’s a big man, but there are ways to stand and project such that another’s gaze will nearly pass over you. He forcibly stills his breathing, remembering even after nearly thirty years the voice of his first master, urging him to be calm. If he concentrates, he can sense the government ship approaching–fanning his range out farther, harder, he can taste their trepidation, their fear and simultaneous faint hope that this negotiation will go well. 

He allows himself to slip into that Force-trance he has become so adept at pulling up, where Force signatures and flares and movements come as ripples of light and color to him and nothing could not be found, if sought.

Hux is, as always, a brilliant flare of reds and golds and deepest black as his mind works, as he greets the Chandrilan envoy, and so the days pass.

* * *

It is only a few weeks later, in the middle of a firefight on Jedha, that he remembers Hux’s words. Kylo has allowed himself to get lazy under the new regime, and the blaster burn at the side of his chest serves to remind him of it. He breathes into the pain, lets the sharp sting of cauterized flesh ground him and fuel his rage, and lets the Force flow through him like a tidal wave. Snoke had beat that technique into him, had broken him down over and over again until he rose and fought back. He clears his mind of the memories and thinks only of the battle.

Fighting is moving meditation and he treats it as such, falling into the blind joy of watching blood sizzle off of the plasma blade as he turns to parry and attack. He is panting by the time the battlefield falls quiet, his knights around him keeping their heads on a pivot for any stragglers that didn’t retreat or fall. Trudgen approaches him cautiously, in full view with his hands empty. “Lord Ren,” he says, clearly enough to be heard through the roaring of flames and his own ragged breathing in his helmet. “Do you require medical assistance?”

As his control thins, the Force leaves him alone with the pain and he catalogues what wounds are minor and major. Kylo twists slightly as he clips the handle of his saber back to his belt and curses as the wound pulls. “No,” he says curtly. Let it be a reminder to him of what it feels like to become complacent.

Trudgen nods his helmeted head at him and beckons to the rest of the knights, telling them to fan out and check for any rebels they missed. Kylo watches them move, robes billowing like crow wings across the smoking battlefield, and pulls out his comm.

“Hux,” he says the moment the holocall goes through.

“Ren?” The tiny wavering image of Hux looks irritated–Kylo can’t see where he is, but it’s probably during the working day where he is. “What is it? Did the mission go well?”

“Yes,” Kylo says. His voice comes heavy through the vocoder. “But you were right.”

“I usually am, but about what this time?” Hux is standing now, walking somewhere presumably more private. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine.” He moves wrong, trips over a body as he makes his way back to the _Silencer_ , and hisses in pain. “But you were right, the rebels, they’re getting–”

“What was that.” Hux’s lips are going pale as they press together, he can see it even through the holo.

“Nothing,” he says. “A small wound. I can handle it. But we need a show of force.”

“Come home,” Hux says. Demands. “As soon as you can. This is unacceptable.”

“I’m sorry.” It slips out unthinkingly, inhibitions loosened from the high of battle and the pain throbbing in his side.

Hux regards him intently. “Don’t apologize,” he says at last. “You have not failed me; this burden is not on your shoulders.” He sighs. “I should have anticipated this, although perhaps not so soon. Come home. Quickly.”

Kylo nods. Hux, blue-tinged, pinches the bridge of his nose with long-fingered hands. “I dislike having you so far from me so often,” he says. “I will think on this. Travel safely.”

Under his benediction, Kylo straightens, ignoring the pain in his side. “I’ll be back soon,” he says.

“Good.” Hux reaches forward and disengages the call, leaving Kylo staring at thin air.

He goes to call for the others and they board the _Silencer_ , leaving behind nothing but blood and ash.

* * *

“A knighting ceremony,” Hux says, after the wound on his side has been seen to and they have retired for the evening. Kylo did not touch it during the flight back, forcing himself to stay centered and alert. Hux had been on the landing strip to greet him, had touched the still-seeping gash with his gloved hands and nodded to a medic. Kylo did not relax until Hux’s hands were on him again, gentling him as the medic applied the bacta and synthskin to the burnt tissue.

“A knighting ceremony?” Kylo looks at the datapad Hux gives him, flipping through archaic-looking pictures and documents. “I’m technically one already, and I don’t see how–”

“You’re a knight of _Ren_ ,” Hux corrects. “Not of the Empire.”

“But the knights of Ren serve Ren, who is me, and I serve the Emperor.” At this point it’s just semantics, but Kylo is in a bickering mood, lying in their bed with his injuries seen to and Hux sitting next to him, glaring at the datapad with his hands in his hair.

“I know,” Hux says. “But we need to present ourselves as a unified front, especially with whispers of your _mother–_ ” he spits, and it’s a little performative but Kylo appreciates it–“in the Outer Rim and resistance growing where we don’t have as strong a military presence. This will display wealth, power, and strength–especially with your reputation growing.” He looks at him fondly, his hand on his hair tightening and petting, and Kylo tilts his face up to be kissed.

Hux obliges him and Kylo says, “That makes sense.”

“Mmm,” Hux says. “I’ll send you an outline of the ceremony I found. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Kylo quirks an eyebrow, feeling old scar tissue pull. “Oh?’

“Mhmm.” Hux kisses him on the forehead and leaves the datapad on the sheets. “I think if we hire the right publicists and organizers, get the right propo angle, it’ll be quite nice. Do look over the outline and tell me what you think.”

“Okay,” says Kylo. “If you’re really going to use _my_ saber, though, I’m not letting you touch it without some lessons.”

“Horrible,” Hux says fondly. “As if I could learn anything from you.”

“I’m not about to let you slice my head off because your hand twitches the wrong way,” Kylo says. “Just to get you used to the feel of it.”

“Very well.” Hux’s fingers begin to work through his hair, detangling the knots that have accumulated there. “You’ll be on your knees for a good amount of time, though.” His tone is just serious enough to make Kylo snicker. “Will you be up for that?”

Kylo closes his eyes, lets the gentle pull and tug of his fingers lull him. “You’d know,” he says, and doesn’t mind one bit when the tremor of Hux laughing makes his fingers tug a little too hard.

The next day, he bullies Hux’s assistant into blocking off an hour-long period in order to get him used to the heft of the blade, both on and off. “Just hold it normally,” he tells him, and Hux scowls at him.

“Hold it _normally_ ,” he snips. “I can’t even find the balance of it.”

“Because the handle’s not balanced,” he says patiently. “It’s bottom-weighted to counteract the weight of the blade.”

“I thought plasma beams didn’t weigh anything.” Hux flips the lightsaber hilt from hand to hand, peering suspiciously at the vents at the crossguard.

“They don’t. But the two crossguard vents make them difficult to change in direction, so it’s easier to control if there’s extra weight in the hilt to keep it centered.”

“I despise the amount of exposed wiring you have,” Hux grumbles, but he finds a grip that feels comfortable soon enough.

“Now hit the button.”

“The button?”

“The button, it’s right under your thumb.”

“What–oh, _this_ button–”

“Be careful, that–”

“ _Stars above–_ ”

Thankfully, the blade was pointing out away from them. It springs to life, crackling with excess energy, and Hux has the good sense and reflexes to keep it leveled away from both of them.

“This thing is a menace, Ren.”

Kylo shrugs. “You wanted to do the knighting ceremony, and I refuse to kneel for a _vibroblade_.”

“You’re right, though.” Hux fixes his grip, slides his hand so that the hilt sits comfortably in his hand. His thumb traces the button idly, still clad in his customary white gloves, and Kylo swallows hard. “It is actually quite well-balanced.” Cautiously, Hux tries a thrust. The blade hums through the air as it moves.

Hux looks good holding a lightsaber. Kylo did not plan for this. The glow of the beam is reflected in the green of his eyes, echoed in the flame of his hair.

“Here,” Kylo says. His voice is rough as he reaches out, wraps his arms around Hux and positions his hands over his. “Hold it like this. Let me hold the weight. Just feel how it moves.”

He holds the lightsaber in defensive neutral, extends out at shoulder height, then slashes down, stopping at the waist. “I will be beneath you, kneeling,” he says. “Practice slashing down, then halting at that height.”

He can hear Hux lick his lips, feel the quiet inhale and exhale as Hux balances the lightsaber in his hands. He moves with him as he does, starting at chest height and stopping at waist height.

Hux’s technique isn’t terrible. He was taught fencing as an officer’s son. Still, he has points he needs to work on.

“Again,” Kylo says, his lips barely touching the back of his head. “Widen your stance.”

The corner of Hux’s mouth ticks up. He widens his stance, slashes down again.

“Better.” Kylo can see his breath rustle the copper strands of his hair. “Again.”

Behind them, a squadron of troopers enter, immediately deem the situation non-critical, and leave the room as quickly as possible.

* * *

Evenings on Malastare fall cool and quick, the night coming in on padded feet to set the lights and lanterns ablaze.

“How much of this is real?” he asks Hux, watching the first stars leap in the sky.

“What do you mean?” Hux has his ever-present datapad in hand, but he looks up at his words.

“How much of this is real?” he asks again. “It’s a good propaganda opportunity and that’s fine, but why the vigil, the bath, the–”

Hux looks, for the first time in a long time, nervous. He sets the datapad down and crosses the room to stand by him at the gallery window. “I had been meaning to ask you about that, actually,” he says carefully. “How. . . real. . . do you want this to be?”

Kylo tilts his head at him. Outside, the guards change shifts.

Hux sighs and folds himself against Kylo with an ease born of familiarity. Out of habit, Kylo’s arm wraps around his shoulders. It’s easy to forget, when he is standing above the people speaking, or fired up in strategy meetings, how small his shoulders are, how fine the lines of his wrist. “The ceremony I have found has quite a bit to do with...weighty concepts. Symbolic death and rebirth. Emphasizing how your life would be mine, and mine yours, as my protection and honor are tied to your strength and your willingness to die for me. That by my hand you are raised up again as my knight.”

Kylo looks at him. “How is that any different from how we are now?”

Hux’s breath catches, just a bit, and then he laughs a little. “Well, stars, Ren, give yourself some credit. You killed Snoke yourself, after all, and well-deserved too.”

Kylo tilts his chin up with one big hand, kisses him. “I wouldn't have done it if you were not there,” he murmurs. And it is true. Snoke’s leash was so tight on him, his conditioning and gaslighting so complete, that the thought of rebelling against the creature that had raised him from Ben Solo into Kylo Ren was unthinkable at the time. But they were young, Hux filled with the fire that had seen him crowned Emperor and Kylo searching for a direction and a cause, and they had mutually decided that they had a common goal that Snoke was not a part of

“Well,” Hux says. “Either way, my question comes down to this–we can go ahead and just do the shiny part, the fancy part that we film and broadcast to look as intimidating and as powerful as we can. Or, we can go the whole way. Not just for the cameras. For us.”

“For us,” Kylo repeats. He thinks of his parents, of Skywalker and Snoke, the people in his past that had held power over him. The people that he had cut down, whose memories still weigh heavy on his brow.

“Of course,” says Hux, fussing a little with Kylo’s hands, “that’s a lot to ask of you, what with some of the more physical and spiritual aspects of the whole thing, not to mention would you _want_ to be tied to me like that, like–”

“I want to do it,” Kylo says.

Hux, uncharacteristically, stutters. “You–you do?” he asks. “Are you absolutely sure? You would do this? For me?”

Kylo takes the hand Hux has allowed to stay in his grasp. “For us,” he says, and it is maudlin but it feels right, as the darkness of night rises and the lights of Malastare blaze in the gloom.

“For us,” Hux repeats, and he smiles–his real smile, something sharp and unsettling and altogether different from the genteel, benevolent thing he bestows on his subject. “My Knight,” he says, and Kylo can hear the capitalization of the last word that turns it into a title.

“My Emperor,” Kylo vows, and bows his head to his hand.

* * *

Meditation is familiar to him by now. Kylo closes his eyes and sits on the cold stone floor cross-legged, clearing his mind. He envisions his consciousness as a petal on a flower on a stem on a plant with roots that spread throughout the entire galaxy, pulling up the oblivion of nothing and everything into him and through him until he is nothing and everything as well.

Kylo sinks into meditation and thinks, in that space between himself and the universe.

He’s skimmed a few of the texts Hux had sent to his datapad that spoke of rebirth, of a clean slate and the reminder that his life is not just his own, and never will be again. He’s not as leery of the idea as he might have been, not as terrified of losing himself in service as he was with Snoke.

He thinks of the masters he has known throughout his life. Of Skywalker, a lifetime ago, who had attempted to defang him, to gentle him down to the light instead of showing him how to use his teeth. Who had never understood the power he held in his hands, that seethed in his blood and bent the Force around him like a tamed beast.

Distantly, he notices his jaw is clenched. He flexes his fingers and relaxes his jaw, and sinks again into that empty space.

It was Snoke who honed him into a weapon, and yet Snoke as well who had kept him leashed, kept him pacing like an animal snapping and tearing at himself until he was given a target to annihilate. Older, now, he can look back at the past and see the way Snoke had baited him, taunted him with stories of his grandfather’s power and the knowledge of both Jedi and Sith past, and broken him down to believe that it was only he who could teach him the power of the Force.

He had taught him, it was true. It was through Snoke that his own power was refined, broken down from a blunt weapon into a precise instrument that could catch blaster fire as it issued from the barrel, could pry into another’s mind and leave it shattered and hollowed out, could shift entire ships in space. Could, ultimately, take up his blade and strike him down when the moment was right, to follow the old Sith tradition and take his own leash in hand.

He breathes. He can still feel, if he concentrates on it, the unique feeling of Snoke in his head, had lived with it for nearly twenty years of his life. It was something cold, chilling him from the inside out, like he could never be truly warm. The feeling of his displeasure was like fingers probing into his mind, like a butcher separating skin from meat and lifting out the raw and rapidly-cooling organs, and he had felt his displeasure often.

Kylo breathes in, and out, and lets it go into that emptiness again.

He meditates on Hux.

It is almost easy to consider him just another in a string of masters, the newest hand heavy on the back of his neck. But Hux spoke true that night, that he does himself disservice. He freed himself by striking Snoke down. He freed himself by striking Skywalker down. And he is stronger than he has ever been before. Hux taught him control, yes, but also the desire to seek that control. He trusts Hux to wield him as a weapon in a way he has never trusted Snoke to.

Hux knows, Hux understands that it is through Kylo’s own choosing that he is here. That it is Kylo’s own decision that he makes every day to remain the Emperor’s Hand.

Would Kylo die for him?

Hux owns more of him than Snoke ever had. By head, by heart, by blood and ash and the Force itself, twining around them inextricably and inexplicably. And yet, when he sits beneath him as Hux takes the throne, as he paces behind him on diplomatic visits and crushes throats and cuts enemies down for him, he feels freer than he has ever had his entire life. His purpose stretches before him like an arrow, perfectly balanced and seeking forward, and it is glorious.

Yes, Kylo decides. He would die for him. It would never happen. But he would gladly put his life in his hands, because he would trust no one else with it. Just as Hux would trust no other with his protection and safety.

The matter decided, he lets his self fade and welcomes the Force in to keep him safe on the long night of the vigil, until Hux will come to begin the knighting ceremony in earnest.

* * *

Kylo does not sleep. The Force sustains him, but even so when Hux pads into the meditation chamber hours before dawn to rouse him, he opens his eyes to the stiffness of muscles held in the same position for hours on end. Hux’s hand is warm on his bare shoulder, chilled by the night air.

“I wish you would meditate in a heated room,” Hux says quietly, wrinkling his nose. “It’s frigid in here.”

Kylo blinks at him and allows himself to be helped up, feeling joints crack and pop. “Better warm me up,” he says, voice rough and rasping.

Hux swats his shoulder and pushes him towards their ensuite bathroom. “Not until after the ceremony is done,” he says. “Go run the bath before I lose patience and hose you down like a dog.”

“ _General_ ,” Kylo says fondly, bitingly, and goes to do as he says. He’s putting in Hux’s fine bath salts and he will refuse to listen to Hux complaining about it.

The water is steaming by the time Hux is back, bringing with him an armful of familiar folded black fabric, his helmet, and the shampoo and conditioner Kylo favors. “Get in,” he says. “Rinse off and I’ll do your hair.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up,” snaps Hux. “It’s just more efficient. Don’t get used to it.”

Kylo grins at him and peels off his pants, feeling rather than seeing Hux’s eyes on him as he slips into the water. It’s hot, the faint smell of herbs rising from its surface, and he lets out a sigh.

“Good?” Hux perches next to him and fills a pitcher with water, wetting his hair. Kylo closes his eyes, lets the water run hot and perfect down the back of his neck.

“Mmm,” he hums. Hux’s fingers lace into his hair, pulling it out of its braid to wet it again more thoroughly.

“Good.” Kylo goes limp, letting Hux maneuver his head around to work the cleanser into his hair and rinse it out. “Scrub yourself down,” he says eventually. “Let the conditioner sit for a bit.”

Kylo does as he is told, the heat of the water still nearly too much after spending the night in a stone-walled room.

“You know,” Hux says, sitting next to his head and watching him lather up. “When we were under Snoke’s thumb, I wanted so desperately to cut your hair off.”

Kylo pauses in soaping up his legs. “Really?” he asks, genuinely curious. “Why?”

Hux sighs. “It was so messy,” he says. “Unruly. Disorderly. Completely against regulation. I had fantasies about pinning you down and forcing you to cut your hair off.”

Kylo smirks and goes back to washing up. “Nice.”

“Shut up,” Hux says fondly. “It drove me mad every time you took off that damn helmet. I couldn’t stop looking at it.”

“Aw,” Kylo says. “You just couldn’t wait to get me on the edge of your knife, could you?”

“I did, didn’t I?” Hux grabs his hair and dunks him, scrubbing his fingers through his hair to get the last of the product out. When he lets him surface again, gasping for breath, Hux combs his fingers through his hair and smiles when they are not met with a single tangle. “I would never allow you to cut your hair now, either way.”

“I wouldn’t let anyone but you do that, anyways,” says Kylo.

Hux runs his fingers through his hair one last time, gripping and pulling at the handful of hair at the base of his scalp, and Kylo relaxes imperceptibly into the pressure, the dull ache of his hand. ”Warm up,” Hux says, rising to his feet. “Then call me and I will help you dress.”

“I don’t need any help,” Kylo protests. “I can dress myself, I’m not a chi–”

Hux grabs his chin with implacable fingers, forcing him to look up at him or be bruised. “I prefer to care for my weapons myself,” he says, voice suddenly hard and unyielding. “You will indulge me this time.”

Kylo looks up at him, feeling his neck press against Hux’s fingers as he swallows. “All right,” he says finally, mouth dry. “My Emperor.”

Hux graces him with a smile. “My Knight-to-be,” he says, a trace of indulgent fondness in his voice. The fondness one would have for a sword well-sharpened, or a prized bloodhound. “I will serve you this once.”

“Thank you,” Kylo says. His mind is already pliable, melting from Kylo Ren, the Emperor’s chosen companion, to Kylo Ren, the Emperor’s Hound.

Hux nods at him, sharp and arrogant, and then he is gone, leaving Kylo alone with the scent of rosemary and sage.

It is easy for him to slip back into a semi-meditative state after spending the entire night in meditation. He clears his mind and, instead of focusing outward, he focuses inward, scanning his consciousness through his body. Stiffness, slipping away in the warmth of the bath. Vague arousal, and that he tucks away for later, setting his mind to the day ahead. Clean hair and clean skin, and the pleasing assurance that he has been well cared for. He wishes, distantly, that Hux had bruised him when he pulled his face up, that he would appear on the holocams later that morning with bruises in the shape of his fingers on his neck. That everyone would know, everyone watching, exactly who he bared his neck for.

He rises, feeling the cooling water slip down his body, and lets the sonicator blast the water from him. He reaches out with the Force, after years of familiarity finding Hux’s Force signature and gently tapping at it, opening the feeling of _ready-prepared-devotion_ to him.

Hux sends back a _good-yes-coming_ and it is a matter of seconds before Hux is standing in the threshold of their bathroom, eyes sharp as he looks him over. Kylo does not move to cover himself or fuss. He lets him look, staying still as he waits to pass muster. 

Hux nods at him and sweeps forward, running a hand over the soft fall of his hair and over the bone of his cheek. He leans forward, but does not kiss him on the lips–he sucks a bright red mark on the side of his neck, rolling the sensitive skin between his teeth. Kylo’s breath quickens, but he does not presume to touch him back.

Hux steps back, looks at his work. He nods again, satisfied, and turns to the pile of Kylo’s clothes he left by the bath. “Full regalia,” he says, and Kylo nods.

He steps into the smallclothes, undershirt, and pants himself, Hux waiting beside him with the rest of his layers. Hux wraps the tunic and heavy surcoat around him personally, zipping it up to his collarbone. He cinches the belt tight, fingers pale and lithe against the heavy leather, and leaves his hand splayed open against his stomach as he fishes the neck seal out of the pile. He clasps the heavy leather around his neck, taking care to lift his hair out of the way so it does not get caught in the zipper, and fastens it. Kylo frowns at the unfamiliar weight of it, fingers going to investigate. They catch on a flat ceramic plaque, sewn at both sides into the leather strips. “What is this?”

Hux pauses, his hands still at the back of his neck. “I thought I would make a few adjustments,” he says. “Let me get you a mirror.”

“It’s all right,” Kylo says, and lets the Force twist around them, taking on physicality. A hand mirror shivers and rises from the counter, zipping into his hand.

He looks.

The Emperor’s Insignia, twisted just slightly from the First Order’s starburst, is nestled in the hollow of his neck, carved deep into the ceramic. In a daze, almost, he lifts his hand and runs his fingers over it. It’s cool, slowly warming with his body heat. It presses against his throat not unpleasantly. It feels grounding.

“What do you think?” Hux is watching him closely, picking apart every microexpression on his face.

He lets his hand fall and looks back at him. “I like it,” he says quietly. “I like it very much.”

Hux’s eyes smile at him. “Good.”

From there, there is only the cowl to drape and pin over him, hood down until he dons the helmet, and the boots. Hux twitches and tugs the rough, durable fabric until it falls to his liking, and kneels gracefully to fasten the straps of his boots. Kylo takes a deep breath, watching Hux on his knees before him, and urges himself to be calm.

Hux stands and straightens the fall of his surcoat again. “There,” he says. He looks pleased, and so Kylo is pleased. “Presentable.”

“What about the gloves?” He is bare-handed, which is not uncomfortable, but surprising.

“They will come later,” Hux says, and Kylo nods. “Leave that to me.” Hux looks him over again, brushing a stray strand of hair back, fussing with the cowl again.

“Hux,” he says. “The holocam droids will be arriving soon.”

“Right,” Hux says. He touches his hair one last time, gently tugging at it, and lets his fingers drift over the mark he left on his neck, covered by the seal. His fingers press hard against the bruise. Kylo breathes out, leans into his touch and lets it center him. “In the throne room,” he reminds him, and Kylo nods. “I will speak, as you kneel, and then the ceremony will commence.”

His fingers seize his chin again and pull him down. “You will look only at me,” Hux says, lowly. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Kylo breathes.

“Good.” Hux kisses him again, biting, bruising lips and teeth, and presses the helmet into his hands. “You are mine,” he says quietly, hard green eyes drilling into Kylo, through him. “And everyone will know.”

Kylo drags teeth over his swollen bottom lip. “I always was, I think,” he says, and slides the helmet over his head.

* * *

Hux’s speech is noise in his ears. He listens for his name, but other than that he keeps his head down, kneeling in front of Hux as he speaks. He catches a few words every now and then–a new age of order, the Emperor’s Right Hand, the Enforcer of Safety–and he watches Hux flicker like a candle in the Force as the speech progresses, reds and golds and blacks.

Again in that space between true meditation and alertness, he can feel the eyes of the galaxy on them. The audience of officers, senators, and on-planet supporters privileged to watch the ceremony in person. Senators and politicians on Chandrila, Coruscant, Naboo, and further, stretching through the Mid Rim to the Outer Rim, where he can feel his mother’s signature and the girl’s, watching the procedure from lightyears away. He tunes in to his mother, distantly curious how she feels.

She responds to his touch, as she always does. She opens _concern_ to him, _worry- shock-fear_ at him kneeling at yet another’s command. He smiles, imperceptible under his helmet, and snaps the connection like a taut string, letting it recoil through space and time. He wonders what she would think about the bruise on his neck, the mark of Hux’s teeth he bears.

“Kylo Ren,” says Hux, and he alerts to him. “Have you come to swear an oath of fealty to me and take the mantle of knighthood upon you?”

“I have,” he says. Through the vocoder, his voice comes heavy and dull and inhuman.

“Then remove your helmet and let me look upon you.”

The vacuum seal and servos hiss as he removes his helmet and shakes his head, letting the well-washed waves of hair settle around his face. The crowd murmurs, most of them never having seen the Emperor’s Hand unmasked before. Once upon a time, this would have made him nervous. Now, he listens to their whispers– _his scar, the pallor of his skin, the harshness of his face, the way he looks at the Emperor_ –and lets their voices fade.

He looks only at Hux.

Hux’s voice carries through the echoing, silent room. “Do you swear by your strength and your sword that you will be faithful to your Emperor, never cause him harm, and observe your obedience to him completely against all enemies in good faith and without deceit?”

“I do,” he says. He projects his voice, lets it rumble in the quietness.

Hux looks aflame, glorious copper hair wreathed with golden laurels, the white emperors’ clothes and cape glowing in the cresting dawnlight. “Do you swear to take your charge’s life in your hands, as his is tied to your own, for better or for worse, until death or fate do you part?”

He tips his head up towards Hux, towards the light that pours down behind him through the skylight. “I do,” he says.

“Do you swear now, before the constituents of the Empire, before the lords, officers, senators, and people of the First Order, that their safety, order, and protection are on your shoulders and your will is the will of the Emperor?”

Kylo Ren looks up at his Emperor, sunlight pouring like glory behind him and around him, and feels the threads of the Force winch them closer with every breath he takes. “I do,” he says, reverential, worshipful.

Hux takes Kylo’s saber from the hidden sheath in his cape. Naturally, as if the weapon was born to be wielded by his hand, Hux flips the lightsaber on. The blade springs to life, crackling and hissing and spitting red sparks. A collective gasp rocks through the throne room.

Hux holds the lightsaber easily in his hand, staring at it. His lips part in a smile. The saber casts a red light on him, painting his skin in the same glow as Starkiller’s did, years and years ago.

Kylo bows his head, not needing to watch him to trust him. He closes his eyes, knowing what comes next.

He hears the hiss and buzz of the saber as it cuts through the air. He does not flinch as his own blade stops, barely an inch from his face. He can feel the heat, only a few moments away from burning him.

The only test he has ever willingly undertaken, with mind, body, and spirit.

He stays still, completely still, knowing he is completely and utterly at Hux’s mercy and unable to look up to meet his eyes.

His own lightsaber spits and crackles. His skin begins to sting, a fingersbreath away from the bruise Hux had given him what feels like hours ago. Hux does not move, does not give him a moment of relief.

The smell of his own burning hair rises to his nostrils. Nerves begin to cry out in pain. He breathes in, inhaling the smell of burning keratin and skin and leather, and out.

He does not move.

The blade turns off.

His own skin sizzles in the silence.

“You are worthy,” Hux tells him, and it is projected for the crowd but to Kylo he speaks to him, him alone and no one else, “of the sword I give you and the duty I place in your hands.”

Kylo looks up at him, involuntary tears in his eyes as the burn on his neck pulls.

Hux looks down at him, and the look in his eyes is like salvation.

Hux leans down, cradles the angle of his jaw in his gloved hand. His fingers rest at the edge of the burn, the brand, he gave him, and he tilts his chin up. Kylo’s jaw flexes and he resists the urge to lean into that cool, soothing touch.

“Let this be the last time you accept punishment from anyone else's hand without retaliating,” Hux tells him, and in one motion he passes the saber hilt to his other hand, strips off his glove, and slaps Kylo full on the face.

His head snaps against his shoulder, the burn on his neck searing in its agony. He breathes hard, fast, in and out and in and out, trying to control his response. He can feel the hot, wet trickle of blood where his lip was split and he laps at it instinctively, the copper familiar on his tongue. He barely feels the sting on his face for his neck, as if it is still burning, eating at him. Grits his teeth, centers himself around the pain, always, always, the burned leather sticking to his skin where the saber ate into him, breathing into the pain and letting it rise and letting it fall.

He turns his head. He looks up at Hux again. And Hux is smiling, grinning, teeth shining like pearl in the light like some demigod out of legend, like something made to consume and consume and grow more powerful with each sun it devours.

“Rise, first and only Knight of the Emperor. I name you Ren, my strong right hand. Your will is my own, just as your hands are my own.” Hux puts his glove back on and raises Ren up, his hands strong and sure at his sides. Ren stands, dizzy, feeling the Force thrum and sing around them. _Ren_ , Hux names him for the third time in his life, the only name he has ever needed and ever wanted.

 _Look at me_ , Hux thinks at him, the feel-taste-sound of his Force-voice familiar and wonderful. _Look at me, you wonderful and glorious creature._

Ren looks at him, made clean and new through fire and pain.

“I give you to you your sword and your gloves, as my Knight and my Hand.” Hux hands him back his saber hilt, and Ren clips it onto his belt. His eyes are fixed only on Hux, looking up at him as he stands in front of the throne. 

With his own hands, Hux lifts Ren’s right hand up. He kisses the palm of his hand, cool and light, and slides over his hand a new glove, the leather worked buttery-soft and a perfect, shining black. He lifts up his left hand and kisses it again, slipping the matching glove over his hand. Something feels off on that side, some finger measurement slightly off, and Ren glances down.

Shining against the black leather is a ring, perfectly burnished to a shine to catch the light pouring down from the skylight.

Ren’s eyes widen. It fits perfectly on his finger, over his glove.

He looks, lightheaded, at Hux’s own white-gloved hands. Yes. Yes.

There, on his left hand, is a matching golden ring. A drop of blood trails down his finger like a garnet and his tongue goes instinctively to the cut on his lip.

Hux had split his lip with their ring.

He looks back at Hux, meeting his eyes. Hux grins back at him, that cruel and unforgiving baring of teeth that makes him want to tear open his own chest and rip out his heart for him.

Hux grabs his face and pulls him up into a vicious, possessive kiss. Ren turns his face up to him, sighing into his mouth as Hux licks over the cut he had given him.

(Lightyears and lightyears away, Leia Organa watches until she cannot anymore and turns away, letting that last flicker of hope that her son would one day return to her die out.)

Hux pulls away and taps on his shoulder. Ren turns to face the masses. Holocam droids orbit around them like planets. He tilts his head up high, wearing with pride the darkening bruise on his face, the burn on his neck, the split lip and the thin streak of blood down his chin.

Hux takes his hand and holds it aloft to the sky, like a torch, like a symbol. He is burning with a fierce, dark joy and Ren cannot take his eyes off of him. It is like staring into the sun.

Barely even thinking about it, Ren flexes his hand and the Force leaps to him, summoning his saber from his belt and setting it ablaze in one swift motion. The red saber bursts to life, humming like a living thing in his upheld fist.

“Your Knight!” Hux shouts, and his voice rings across the room as the audience bursts into applause as one.

Hux’s speech afterwards fades in his ears as a choreographed wave of officials and servants move to guide the audience of senators and political guests to one of the adjacent rooms, where feasting and celebrations and contests of strength will be held for the next few days as tradition dictates. The room slowly quiets, until it is just them alone in an empty room, standing beside each other instead of apart by ceremony.

Ren has no words, not now. He merely holds up his hand, letting the light play over the ring.

Hux closes his eyes. “I know it is a lot,” he says quietly, none of the Emperor’s tone in it. “I thought I had made it clear, what I was asking of you, but–”

Ren gently tips his face up and closes the scant few inches between them with a kiss.

When Hux’s hand comes up to cup his face, the coolness of the metal ring is a blessing on his skin.

When they separate, Hux is smiling again. “I demand you get that seen to,” he says, looking at the brand on his neck. “You smell like burnt leather and hair, and that will have to grow out for months–”

“Hux,” Ren says, and wraps his hands around his sides, marvelling still at how his hands splay over his waist. “Later.”

Hux’s fingers, cloaked in soft white leather as familiar to Ren as his skin, trail over his face, his lips. Green eyes meet his, as soft and as deadly as the sea. “Later,” he acquiesces, and Malastare’s sun blazes down on the dawning of a new era.

**Author's Note:**

> ask me to talk abt kylo ren's costuming at a-flickering-soul.tumblr.com!


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